


These Are The Lies

by Shizukana2203



Series: Welcome to Watchtower High [5]
Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Suicide Idealization, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shizukana2203/pseuds/Shizukana2203
Summary: Bruce may seem like an emotionless manipulative bastard who cares about no one, but what nobody seems to realise is this - without his brother, he would have drowned a long time ago.Title comes from The Cab song of the same name.





	These Are The Lies

Eight years.

It had been eight years since Crime Alley, and the night that ruined his life.

Bruce stared at the tombstones, each marked with the name of one of his parents. His fists clenched around the bouquets before he took a breath and lay them down.

Everything was ready. He had written the letter already, and the rope was safely stashed in its secret hiding spot.

He would do it tonight.

After all, who else except Alfred would miss him?

God, Alfred.

Bruce bit his lip slightly as guilt washed over him. This would break Alfred's heart, that he was sure of. Soon enough though, he was sure that the butler would see that he was better off without Bruce.

Spinning sharply on his heel, the last remaining Wayne stalked out of the cemetary.

\---

He had said goodbye to his faithful friend for the last time. As he shut the door behind him, Bruce's fingers curled tighter around the rope. In half an hour, he would be in the tree he had picked, ready to finish it.

He took a breath and began walking.

The minutes passed by in a blur. It felt like only seconds had passed but an age had dragged on at the same time. Soon enough, however, the tree was in sight.

Wait.

Bruce frowned, seeing a mud and leaf covered lump under the tree that hadn't been there a few days ago, when he finally had chosen this spot. As he walked closer, his heart crept higher into his throat as he realised what the lump was.

It was a teenager, clearly not much older than himself.

Bruce's eyes widened and he ran to the teen's side. They were icy to the touch, but burning hot in places. Brushing some of the plant debris off, Bruce saw why. They were covered in wounds, some older than others, all terribly infected. It was a miracle they had survived this long.

Bruce couldn't leave them here. They'd die.

Dropping the rope, Bruce cast his gaze about for something he could drag the teen back to the manor on. A few metres to his right was an old hollow log, split in half by some kind of lightning strike.

Perfect.

Bruce dragged it over and carefully lifted the teen onto it. He blinked as he saw the teen's face - or rather, the lack thereof. A meta. Well, that explained some of the wounds. The teen whimpered under his touch, his flushed face taut with pain. His clothes were in serious disrepair, barely rags anymore. Bruce took off his coat, covering the teen with it before looping the rope around the makeshift sled and pulling. He was quietly glad his powers made him less susceptible to environmental factors like temperature. It was cold. The sled shifted about a metre and Bruce sighed. It was going to be a long trek back.

\---

The Manor was in sight. They were almost there.

Bruce looked over his shoulder worriedly at the meta on the log behind him. His hearing was sharper than most's, but even he was struggling to hear the faceless teen's breathing anymore.

If he didn't get him to Alfred soon, he wouldn't make it. The sled was too slow. He would have to carry the teen the last few hundred metres.

He dropped the rope, moving over to the teen's side and carefully lifting him up. Worryingly, the teen didn't react. Bruce could feel his pulse - slow and very faint. He swore.

"Hold on, just a little longer."

Slowly, he made his way across the frozen earth, keeping a tight grip on the teen. He shouldered the servants' door open, opening his mouth to call for his butler.

"Alfred! Where are you?!"

The sound of quick footsteps on wood flooring echoed through the quiet house until the butler's head appeared around the doorframe.

"Master Bruce? I though you were-- good Lord!"

Stepping through the door, Alfred took the faceless teen from Bruce, carrying him to the bathroom.

"Master Bruce, retrieve the first aid kit from the kitchen, bring it to me, then get several blankets from one of the guest rooms. This young man needs immediate medical attention."

Bruce didn't stick around to nod, running as fast as he could to get the items. He stopped briefly in his own room to grab the dark blue comforter off his bed, as well as a spare set of pajamas. Carrying everything as best he could, he hurried back to Alfred and the boy. Alfred had begun bathing the teen's wounds, cleaning them out as much as possible. Bruce felt a swell of anger rise in his chest as he noticed the multitude of scars spread across the injured boy's body - and the barcode tattooed into his forearm.

"Master Bruce, a hand please?"

Bringing himself back to reality, the billionare teen moved to assist his butler in cleaning, drying and bandaging wounds. Time flew by as the pair worked tirelessly to save the faceless teen. They cleaned his face and hair while looking for other injuries, finding - to their surprise - that he had orange hair, almost strawberry blonde in shade. After almost two hours, they were done. Bruce sat back, drying off his hands.

"Alfred, I think we should move him to the room across from mine, just to be on the safe side."

The butler considered it for a moment before nodding.

"I shall get it set up, sir. After that, I believe a call to Doctor Thompkins is in order. Whomever this boy is, Master Bruce, he needs medical help we simply aren't equipped to give him."

Bruce nodded and Alfred got up, leaving the room with swift strides. Bruce stared at the boy, his mind turning as he catalogued the wounds. Burns, gashes, cuts, bruises, probable internal bleeding, dislocated joints - someone had put this kid through the wringer. Several times, apparentally, going by the sheer amount of scars that caked his body. This went far beyond abuse. This was torture.

Alfred soon returned, picking up the faceless teen again and carrying him upstairs to the prepared room. Bruce followed behind him, carrying the comforter back up and carefully laying it on top of the teen. They had foregone putting the pajama shirt onto the teen, as that was where the majority of the wounds were. Bandages covered his upper body, to the point where the only skin showing was his featureless face and his hands. Bruce barely noticed as his butler stepped out to call the doctor, too preoccupied with trying to figure out where the tattooed barcode could have come from.

A sudden hitching of breath was his only warning before he was suddenly being kicked in the chest, the faceless teen scrambling to get away. Wincing slightly and rubbing the quickly forming bruise, Bruce raised his hands, keeping his palms flat and facing towards the other teen.

"Easy, easy. You need to relax, you're badly wounded."

The faceless teen backed into the far corner, hunching down as much as possible. Bruce went to move around the bed, freezing when he saw the other teen flinch violently.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Bruce Wayne, what's yours?"

The teen didn't say anything, but a hand rose to his throat. Bruce blinked.

"You can't speak?"

The teen's ears flicked back slightly (much to Bruce's surprise) as he curled in on himself. Slowly, Bruce reached behind him and grabbed the notepad and pen he had been scribbling on from the bedside table. Flipping to a new page, Bruce gently tossed the items so they landed in front of the teen.

"There you go. You can write your responses."

Distrustfully, the teen reached over and snatched the notepad, as if fearing it would be taken from him. He flipped back, scanning through the scrawled notes and theories before going to a fresh page and slowly writing something. When he held up the page, Bruce could barely make out the clumsy letters.

"Cah...cah-oh-muzz? Wait, that's a 'd'...cad-muzz? Oh, Cadmus! Like the Ancient Greek hero."

The teen shuddered, scribbling something else down.

"No...hero...? What do you mean?"

The teen cleared his throat a couple times, swallowing. His voice was faint and hoarse, but clear.

"Labs. Hate metas. Did--" he gestured to his scars and bandages-- "this. Bad place."

Bruce bit back a growl, slowly moving to sit next to the bed in plain sight of the other meta.

"I'm not like them. I promise you, I won't hurt you in any way, shape or form."

The other teen frowned.

"Why believe you?"

Smiling slightly, Bruce focused on the digital clock on the bedside table closest to the other teen. Raising a hand, he flicked his fingers and the clock reconfigured, becoming a small sculpture of an outstretched hand. The other teen's head snapped to the sculpture, shoulders dropping in wonder.

"Because I'm a meta too."

Putting the sculpture down, Bruce shuffled slightly closer and held out his hand.

"As I said, I'm Bruce Wayne. What's your name?"

The other teen stared down at his hand with an eyeless gaze before his face rose to look at Bruce. Slowly, the other meta moved closer and tentatively gripped his hand.

"Vic. Vic Sage."


End file.
